Sunday
by blod1tatws
Summary: One day changes Doctor John Watson's life forever. Pre-Sherlock, war and fighting involved.


_**This was actually a creative piece I did for AS about 2 years ago, about the Bloody Sunday tragedy in Ireland in 1972. I thought I could change it a bit because there is still war and fighting for freedom these days. **_

_**Do not own. Some may also recognize lyrics from the song "Sunday Bloody Sunday" by U2, and I don't own that either. **_

_**Nothing too explicit. Enjoy anyway.**_

I don't know what I'm doing here. Have I lost my mind, lost my senses? I know that is what everyone else thinks. Their faces a mixture of shock at my boldness, disapproval of my standing up for what I believe in, and amusement at this fool, a clown in a sea of ring-masters, their eyes flashing with the desire to bring me down, to control me.

I'm no one important. I'm not a world leader or a celebrity or an athlete or a writer. I'm me. I'm an ordinary person with an ordinary life, with ordinary morals and an ordinary mind. I'm someone people ignore, just someone in the corner people will avert their eyes from. I'm dust, but dust that won't be blown away easily.

And here I am, standing boldly in front of young soldiers barely old enough to be out this late. Their dark uniforms are as one with the dull background, emphasising the bleak mood of the present. The splash of colour comes from the patriotic colour of our country; the blue, red and white flying high amongst the darkening clouds. To some in this country, it symbolised hope and freedom. But to others, it was a mark of domination and they would not settle for it. That is why I'm here now, standing up for what I believe is right. The alien soldiers have a row of ugly guns staring at me, the only weapon I have is my beliefs. I believe this belief will shine a light for the future where we can live in harmony, without intrusion from the danger countries.

But I'm not here alone; thousands of us walk this dead-end street, all different except for the longing for freedom that was rooted in our hearts.

It is the 21st of June, 2009. Some of us don't know why we are here, innocent humans marching slowly down a road which was deserted to begin with. But suddenly, we stop. People suddenly line the street, eagerly watching the scene. But this street isn't special, with old brick houses that crumble where they stand, and dust falling like snow on the cold and dirty ground. Heavy footsteps rumble towards us, our own steps falter…

The Taliban advancing quickly, knowing we're the threat.

Banging…yelling...screaming… it's all I hear. The guns are being fired at us. Bullets to the left and bullets to the right…how can we escape this alive?

A gruff voice yells over the noise, but no one listens. Gripped with fear and panic we run for our lives. How long can we sing this song, for no one is letting us? The spectators have already scurried away or hiding in their dirty houses, peering through the dirty windows. There's no point calling for help because who would listen? We couldn't expect ordinary people to fight the battles we started, we entered here alone.

I'm firmly hidden in a corner, praying that I become dust once again and people will ignore me. I see dead bodies strewn across the dead end street, others trampling over some in their haste to escape. There are others who are helping the wounded, carrying them away from further harm, but putting themselves in danger. Barrages of tears overflow my cheeks as I look at their heroism.

I won't hide like a coward even though it's what everyone else would do, I won't heed the battle call. I have to help my fellow countrymen. We are one though we're not the same, and I wipe the tears from my eyes.

Running. People pushing and shoving. There were dozens of us here this morning and some of us are still here battling to get away. I see a young boy lying on the ground, and I have to help him because through those terrified eyes I see myself when I was his age, full of dreams. I'm not old, at 36 my life is beginning or so they say. But my life has no value compared to this young boy who only seems to have just turned 17. His face is ghostly pale, but a trickling of warm red blood covers his body. His ice blue eyes pierce me, and a hushed whisper escapes his lips.

"Make it go away. The pain, please make it go 'way…" His eyes close. His frantic heartbeat which I could feel before stops. Dead.

I know I will die. I am just an ordinary person who has lived an ordinary life. There's no one there for me to live for, not anymore. Yet here is my extraordinary moment, my moment in the spotlight. I have tried to bring freedom and peace to Afghanistan. I haven't succeeded yet but someone will after seeing this massacre. Dead bodies everywhere. Each and every one of them fighting for their beliefs in creating a safer world.

A hissing sound comes closer…and closer…and closer…

Darkness. It's all I see, everlasting darkness. Sunday, bloody Sunday.


End file.
